The Drunken Scotsman
by TheFreakZone
Summary: A passed-out Scotsman wearing a kilt and a trio of rascals— what could possibly happen? Song-fic; one-shot.


_AN: I found this song a while ago (bless YouTube's suggestions) and I've been wanting to write this ever since. Today I had some free time and I needed a laugh, so I finally wrote it. I've done it in_ _— two hours, one hour and a half? So don't expect too much.  
Disclaimer!  
_Hetalia _— Hidekaz Himayura  
_ The Drunken Scotsman _— Traditional Drinking Song / Irish Rovers / Sallymacs (?)  
And that's it. Let's get on with the nonsense!_

* * *

 **The Drunken Scotsman**

Alistair stumbled through the door and out of the bar. He had drunk far more than his share, but it had been out of pure necessity— he had had to go through lunch with his family! And everyone who had ever heard of the Kirklands knew that those events seldom ended happily. Of course, this time hadn't been an exception. Arthur had been as grumpy as always, if not more, and they had been arguing over everything. His brother had been yelling at him from the start, since the moment he had seen him wearing his kilt. _That's not appropriate, Alistair. We're in a fancy restaurant, Alistair. Your horrendous accent is enough to let the world know you're Scottish, Alistair_. Well, fuck you, Arthur. He had made a great effort to not start a fight right there, and had fled before his murderous instinct kicked in and made him twist his beloved little brother's neck.

Now, after having spent the whole afternoon drinking at a pub, he felt much better— more or less. Although he prided himself in excelling at holding alcohol, he was well aware that he'd regret it in the morning. In fact, he already felt the effects of all he had drunk. Sleepy, he stumbled to the other side of the road, where there was a small patch of grass next to the sidewalk, and he let his body drop to the ground. He silently thanked the sun for having already set, thus not being there to disturb his sleep, and nodded off.

~{§}~

"So, where do we go next?"

"I've never been to this part of the city; I've no idea what kind of places we can go to."

"I say we get into the first appealing pub we see, have a drink, and then move on to another one. What could possibly go wrong?"

"The last time you said that, we had to go get you to a police station."

"Yes— but we had fun, didn't we?"

"That's for sure."

The trio walked down the street, talking and laughing, earning strange looks from every passer-by. Truth be told, they were an odd group: a German albino with an obnoxious laugh, a Spaniard who looked like a hyperactive puppy and spoke much louder than necessary, and a Frenchman who held his long hair in a ponytail and winked and threw kisses at basically any person they crossed paths with.

"Are we improvising then?"

"Yep."

They turned at the next corner, attracted by what sounded like a great party. However, they didn't walk far before a bump on their way caught their eye. The three of them shared a look, nodded, and moved with decision towards what happened to be a sleeping person.

"This guy's going to have one hell of a hangover tomorrow," Francis said, furrowing when the stench of alcohol reached him.

"Hey, look! He's wearing a Scottish skirt!" Antonio noted. "What's it called again?"

"A kilt," Gilbert answered, kneeling to take a better look at the man. "I'd never met a Scotsman before."

"Me neither." The Frenchman kneeled by his friend's side and reached to move a few strands of fiery red hair out of the Scot's face. "He's kinda handsome."

"And strong, by the looks of it," Gilbert added, pointing at the built biceps that the shirt barely hid.

The three of them remained silent for a moment, studying the passed-out man before them; Francis and Gilbert knelt by his side, Antonio standing behind them. It was precisely the Spaniard who let out a pondering noise, catching his friends' attention, and then spoke, more to himself than to the others:

"I wonder if it's true what they don't wear beneath their kilt."

For a few moments, no one moved. Then, Francis and Gilbert got up in sync and turned to face Antonio. Red, blue and green eyes looked alternately from ones to the others, all of them twinkling. Francis grinned; Gilbert smirked; Antonio raised an eyebrow. No words were needed.

The Spaniard straightened and began to look all around themselves, making sure that there were no unwanted witnesses, while the Frenchman and the German knelt once again, this time one on each side of the Scotsman. They waited for their friend to join before they lifted the Scottish skirt, barely enough to see. And what they saw beneath it was nothing more than God had graced the man with upon his birth.

"… it seems it's true, after all…"

"… yeah…"

"… we should cover him again, don't you think?"

They let go of the kilt at the same time, rose to their feet and shared a look. That episode would surely go down as one of the weirdest things they'd ever done— and they had done some _very_ weird stuff. Francis scratched his stubble; Gilbert coughed and looked away; Antonio bit the inside of his cheek.

"We should get going," the German finally broke the silence. When his friends nodded in agreement, he started to make his way towards that noise that promised a terribly awesome party.

"Wait!" Antonio suddenly called. "We can't leave him like this," he said, pointing to the sleeping redhead.

"Why? Because a trio of strangers might creep upon him to take a look under his kilt?" smirked Francis, chuckling when Antonio blushed red.

"He's right, though," Gilbert intervened. "We could leave a present for our friend before we move along."

"Like what?"

Before the German could answer, Antonio reached for the blue silk ribbon that held Francis' ponytail in place and pulled it loose. His friends looked at him, confused at first, until they understood what he meant.

"Oh, alright…" Francis groaned. "But you'll buy me a new one."

"I'll buy you two," he winked.

The three of them knelt once again beside the Scot, who remained blissfully unaware of everything that was going on. They acted quickly and so in sync that, had someone seen them, they wouldn't believe it was the first time they had done something like that. Which totally was.

Once the ribbon was tied into a bow around the Scotsman's manhood, the trio shared a smirk before moving on. It had been really fun, but there was a huge party going on somewhere and the noise lured them in like a siren's spell.

They were pretty simple men.

~{§}~

It was Nature's call what finally woke Alistair up. He opened his eyes, groaning, and stumbled to his feet. He needed a moment to remember why he was there — _Family meeting… Arthur… Right, I got pissed_ — before his bladder claimed his attention back. He dragged himself to the nearest tree, not even bothering to go to a proper toilet, and got ready to set free all the alcohol he had previously ingested.

However, the moment he lifted his kilt, he was shocked. He gawked at what he saw, utterly confused. _I'm certain I didn't put that on when I left home_. He looked around, wondering if the author of the gift was still around, but he saw no one. His gaze moved back down, and he blinked a few times before he said, in a startled voice:

"Lad, I don't know where you've been, but I see you've won first prize."

* * *

 _AN: that last line never fails to crack me up, no matter how many times I listen to the song :P Well, I hope you enjoyed it! Reviews are appreciated :)_


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